Fallout New Vegas: Aftermath
by UntouchedShadow
Summary: A depiction of the Courier's life in the Mojave and the current way of life following the events of the Battle of Hoover Dam. Based off choices I made in the game.


Every man has a train of thought on which he rides in his mind, whether he is alone or in the presence of others. This train is always moving on a never ending track, all seats filled with thoughts of whatever goes on around him. Depending on the person, the train can be moving along at great speeds or simply going at a leisurely pace. The Courier's train of thought can be described as a high-speed passenger train filled to the brim with thousands of people, passing by so fast it would appear as a mere blur.

This image went through the Courier's mind as he aimed down the sight of his battle scarred rifle towards his target, and he smiled at the thought of it. In his mind, the efficient man is the man who thinks for himself and others, and is capable of thinking hard and long in a short amount of time. Not thinking things through commonly leads to wrong judgments, wrong conclusions, and wrong actions. What is one to do when approached by heavily armoured Legionary assassins, armed and ready to fire? What must be done when a famished Deathclaw suddenly descends upon a man and his surprised group? What acts must one commit to keep a slowly regrowing civilization running? Or to keep an expanding military force from lashing out? Or to prevent a number of destructive nukes from crashing down upon what he now called home whilst dealing with a man who sought to kill him?

These are the sort of thoughts that occupied the Courier's train inside his mind. It's what made him succeed. Granted he didn't always think clearly and didn't always make the best choices, as he painfully realized when he had once decided to rush a hot-headed super mutant with nothing but a rusty pen knife. For the time being though, the Courier pushed these thoughts and many other distracting ones to the back recesses of his mind to make room for new ones, such as how far to the left he should aim, how to angle his shot, and whether he'd hit his target where he wanted to or not. Sure he could just use his handy-dandy Pip-Boy device and take aim with the Vault-Tec Assisted Targeting System, but he taught himself not become so dependent on the little piece of machinery. After all, it doesn't always work perfectly one hundred percent of the time, but his aim sure as hell did.

With that, he pulled the trigger of his rifle. It was a beautiful rifle to him. An M1 Garand he had christened "This Machine" after the words playfully scratched into the forestock of the gun that patriotically proclaimed, "Well this machine kills commies!"  
It was scratched up from the various scuffles the Courier had had and the length of time the gun had been put to use, but it was genuinely well kept for its age, and he made sure it stayed that way.

It showed as the bullet flew gracefully from its barrel and went sailing far off, straight into the middle of the empty Sunset Sarsaparilla bottle that he had been aiming at. The bottle shattered into neat little pieces that scattered against the dusty ground as they dropped. The Courier looked up from his rifle and smiled a toothy grin to his friend, Raul, standing next to him with his arms crossed.

"Alright, alright, boss. Your aim is slightly better than an old man's," Raul teased, "I hope you're not expecting a medal from me."  
Raul was a close friend of the Courier, one of the eight he made along his journey. He never knew how old Raul was considering his only response to the question was "Old enough to know better boss, old enough to know better," but he remembered hearing him explain he was born in 2047, before the Great War, so that was enough info for him to guess he was a pretty damn old man. Nevertheless, the sarcastic old ghoul was a good shot, and it was only just recently through the Courier that he once more embraced his old gun slinging ways. He was mechanic by day and the legendary Ghost Vaquero by night, hunting down raiders, bandits, and thugs with precision aim.

He also owed the Courier lunch.

"Ah, next time we'll take bets on who kills the most raiders and not the most bottles," Raul remarked as he pulled caps out of his wallet. "I figure the odds'll be more in my favour."  
"I might just take you up on that offer, Raul," the Courier responded. "But first, how about we go and visit that nice expensive outdoor cafe that was just built on the Strip, on you of course."  
"Aw c'mon boss, you're going to bleed this old man's wallet dry?"  
The Courier lifted an eyebrow.  
"What are you worried about? You're basically rich working with me."  
Raul shrugged and said, "Hey, I gotta' save up for my retirement, don't I?"

With that, the Courier and Raul burst into laughter, both making their way along the dust covered roads to the Strip with their arms around one another shoulders.


End file.
